


Sanctuary

by DireDigression



Series: Becoming Sole [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Fish Tales, Gen, post-post apocalypse music, tipsy singing, vague description of hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DireDigression/pseuds/DireDigression
Summary: Sole finds sanctuary: in a home, in people, in music.
Series: Becoming Sole [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928578
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for a Fallout Discord server event, prompt: "Sanctuary"

It's a chill night, November per the Pip-Boy in Sole's room, and she, Preston, and Sturges are sharing a fire in Sanctuary. They've just finished off the leg of a massive radstag that Preston had taken down that morning. From the moment that he had reappeared through the fog in Sturges' sights, whistling a sharp _Loot for haul!_ signal and punching his fist in the air, the day had turned into a celebration. Preston ensured that every effort was put into collecting every usable part. Most of the meat went to the newly built smokehouse, and the hide was scraped and cleaned for tanning. The leg had been thrown over the fire to roast and been split among them along with a loaf of razorgrain bread and a pile of beers, plus one precious bottle of wine. Now, they're stuffed and happy, slumped in their chairs as the tinny sounds of Diamond City Radio float from the old speakers.

Sole watches the two men as they chatter. Preston describes the hunt for the stag, which had taken him west of Concord and south of what was apparently a small farm. He gets into the story, animated, hand motions twisting as he describes barely avoiding a stray mongrel, slipping between a pile of radioactive waste and a bloodbug he swore was large enough to carry a brahmin, finally creeping over a hill to spy the stag far below. Sturges joins in to add all the necessary embellishments, the other four monstrous hounds backing up the mongrel, the green mist around the waste, the extreme distance between Preston and the stag that pushed the scope of his trusty musket to the absolute limit. How Preston had lined up the bead on the stag's eye and was about to make the shot when—oh no!—the wind shifted! The stag caught his scent, wheeled, bolted in the opposite direction, farther out of range by the second—and Preston made the shot anyway! What a hero! Such a legend! The best radstag hunter in the entire extreme-northwestern corner of the Commonwealth!

Sole rolls her eyes, despite her grin. Fish tales never change, she supposes. She drops her gaze to the fire instead. It crackles cheerfully in the rough metal pit they've hammered together. The occasional _pop_ or shift of a log that sends up a reverse-rainfall of sparks makes her jump a little, every time. Beyond the little circle of light they've carved out, in the dark of the forest past the sleeping houses of Sanctuary, insect chatter fills the emptiness. She'd never paid too much attention to the local fauna before the bombs, but it seems like a lot of insect noise for this late in the year. And the chirps and clicks don't feel familiar to what she remembers. But, again, she never paid attention before, barely heard it anyway over the hum of cars and muffled chatter of families and televisions. The sound _is_ familiar now, the white noise backdrop to all the past nights like this one, weeks of them now, all the other nights they drowned their aches and their repressed anxieties in Gwinnetts until crashing to sleep before starting another day of rebuilding.

Her attention is snapped back to the two men by...Sturges suddenly snapping his hands toward Preston, shimmying his body, and then—singing along with the radio. His voice is a rough tenor, mostly in the right key, and the delight in it is infectious. " _There's a two-legged animal runnin' about!"_

Preston grins and sways along with the song. Sturges jumps to his feet and swings to direct the next verse at Sole, hips swinging.

_If it acts just like a crossed patch,_

_Has a face with whiskers that scratch,_

_If it's stubborn as can be, mean and ornery,_

_It's a man!_

Sturges plops back down in his chair for a bit, still humming along, then takes a quick swig and jumps back up. He drags Preston up with him, who joins in stomping round the fire in a tipsy dance opposite Sturges. His smile becomes a bit toothy as he takes over the next verse in an equally joyful, if rather less musical, clear baritone.

_If it acts just like it's the boss,_

_When you know that you are, of course,_

_If it gets a little rough, thinks it's very tough,_

_It's a man!_

By this point the two are beginning to break down in snorted giggles, but they hold it together long enough to shout the conclusion, complete with swinging arms grabbing shoulders to punctuate the lyrics: " _GRAB IT! HOLD IT! HANG ONTO IT! For it's a maaaaaaaaaan!_ " They collapse back into their chairs, wheezing and reaching for drinks.

Sole claps, giggling. "Encore! Encore!"

Preston huffs a laugh and waves her off. "Please, no, I ain't singin' again tonight." But he seems to remember something and turns to Sturges. "Hey, you should pull out that geeta! I bet Sole hasn't heard one yet!"

"Oh yeah, I'll run grab it! She probably needs a tunin' anyway."

Preston and Sole sit with the sounds of the radio, the fire, and the insects for several moments until Sturges returns. He's carrying an oddly shaped case on a strap, which he opens to pull out an object. Sole can't help herself, pushing halfway out of her chair for a closer look at what seems to be a strange guitar. It's boxy and inelegant in design, but he cradles it lovingly as he presses an ear close and plucks the strings. Its worn, polished wood gleams slightly in the firelight. Preston leans down to click the radio off. The sudden silence amplifies the background noises, insect chirps and firewood pops becoming almost deafening over the faint notes coming from the geeta's strings.

The plucked notes of tuning slip together into strum patterns. A chipper, jazzy tune echoes from the little box. Sole doesn't recognize it. She stares at Sturges' fingers a while longer, deft on the strings, his sinewed wrists bending with familiarity to navigate the instrument. Then she settles back in her chair, relaxing to take in the scene. Her gaze settles, as usual, on the flickering dance of the firelight. The life taken on by the flames. She traces the spiraling flight of sparks in the air, follows the curling tendrils of smoke in their column up into the sky.

The music shifts to a statelier tempo, almost tribal sounding as Sturges adds in echoing percussive _thumps_ to the box. Sole gazes up into the expanse of sky. It was always one of her favorite things about moving out of the city. No more light pollution, no more towering forest of buildings. She'd never taken advantage of the view as much as she should have, just a quick glance up in awe between the car and the front door. But that's at least one change that the bombs have made unquestionably for the better. The sky glimmers with an unfathomable abundance of stars, the Milky Way striking across the center of the expanse. A silvery crescent moon rises over the distant trees.

Sturges begins singing again. His husky voice and heavy southern accent fit oddly with the solemnity of the song, but when she reorients herself to again take in the campfire, the mechanic and his instrument, Preston relaxed and gazing into the fire, it suddenly seems an ideal fit.

A new song starts. Wait. She refocuses on Sturges. She's not familiar with the words he sings, but the tune niggles at her brain.

_Stop near, oh stranger passin',_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_Stop near, oh stranger passin',_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_I looked across the glowin', and what did I see?_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_A stranger in a strange land, comin' after me,_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_Stranger, if your road takes you where I belong,_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_Please tell my girl she's got to carry on,_

_Won't you come and bury my bones._

It's not identical, but it's close enough. "That's...I know that melody. That's 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.'"

Sturges looks up, his fingers abruptly silencing the strings from the tune he'd moved on to. "You know that one? Sing it in yer vault?"

"Uh...sure. We had different lyrics, but it's definitely the same tune. The lyrics we used were about...uh..." She takes a breath and rubs her face. "A religion from before the bombs. I suppose." She'd never been particularly religious herself, but she hadn't thought about the likelihood that all of the beliefs and traditions surrounding her now were totally new. That she was alone in an entirely new culture whose history she couldn't fathom. That anyone who could share the cultural touchstones she knew was...

Sturges grins. "That's real cool. I wonder how that happened? Think a vaultie left and brought it with 'em, or maybe they're both from a pre-war one?" She goes mute and shakes her head. "Have any other vault songs? You should sing them for us!" Her eyes widen and she shakes it more vigorously. "Heh, alright. Preston, requests?"

Preston seems to shake himself out of a daze. "Oh, hmm. How about Minnie?"

"Another sad one, eh? Alright, but you know you gotta help me out here." He begins plucking out a mournful tune. Then he softly cries out some nonsense syllables, which Preston echoes. The song is sorrowful and wild and utterly unlike anything she's heard before and... _hold on a minute._ He's started into the verse, and this time the sound of the song is totally different, but—

"You're not telling me _"Minnie the Moocher"_ is a _ballad_ now _,_ are you?!" She can't help interrupting. She's suddenly struggling to hold back laughter despite the hauntingly sad melody.

Preston and Sturges look at each other in confusion. "Yeah?" says Preston. "It's a traditional ballad." Their faces shift to offended as she gives up the attempt and breaks into full laughter.

"Well if your vault didn't think so, you're the weird one out here, not us," sniffs Sturges. "Here I was trying to play something nice for you, but if I'm not appreciated..."

"You're appreciated, certainly!" she gasps, managing to strangle the laughter back to giggles. "Please, don't mind me. Play more, please, I want to hear you. You're the best geeta player I've ever known!" And she hasn't felt this... _at peace_...since, she supposes, the War.

Sturges sniffs and only looks slightly less offended, but he returns to his instrument. Sole drops back into her chair to listen. The men's voices blend with the songs of the insects and the fire and are carried away with the smoke towards the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the traditional ballad is a Doctor Who reference ;)  
> I really enjoyed coming up with new lyrics. Makes it a lot easier when you already have the music it's gotta fit!  
> And a little bit of headcanon came along with it too: so many wastelanders die far from anyone they know. Just dying with someone who would and can bury them must be a good death.  
> I spent all day "researching" 50s-ish music, but also spirituals, because I thought those would be really appropriate songs to get carried down along with just chart toppers.  
> And then, of course, the wastelanders would have come up with plenty of their own new music. Because that's what humans do, in spite of their circumstances, or perhaps because of them. They create. But that's where my creative abilities ended.


End file.
